An Indian in the lead amidst a big spectator crowd.The Horse Race.
Away go the flying horses, and several thousand eyes following theyellow rider, still ahead, as they grow smaller and smaller in the distance, until the Indian horse turns the stake at the farther end in advance. Now they come, increasing in size to the eye as they approach, theyellow riderstill in advance. Crabb gasps for breath, and declares that his horse “will yet win.”
The eagle eye of the old chief lights up as they come nearer, his rider still leading. Excitement is now beyond words to tell. Look again!—the Indian boycomes alone, rattling his dry willows over a horse that was making the fastest time on record, considering the nature of the turf.
The Indians along the line fell in, and ran beside the victorious racer, encouraging him with wild, unearthly shouts, while he comes to the starting-point, running the five miles and one-fourth and eighty-three yards in the unprecedented time ofnine minutesandfifty-one seconds; winning the race and money, much to the joy of the Indians and their few friends, and to the grief of Crabb and his many friends. He, without waiting to hear from judges, ran down the track nearly a mile, and, rushing up to the gay jockey, with silver spurs, white pants, blue cap, and crimson jacket, who had dismounted, and was leading the now docile,fine-blooded English racer by his silver mountings, inquired, “What’s the matter, Jimmy?”—“Matter? Why, this hoss can’t run a bit. That’s what’s the matter.”
Do my readers wonder now that so many white men, along the frontier line, declare that all good “Injins are three feet under the ground”?
Before leaving this subject, it is proper to state that How-lish-wam-po gave back to Crabb the saddle-horse he had won from him, and also money to travel on; and with a word of caution about stealing out his competitor’s horse, and having a race all alone, remarking dryly, “Me-si-ka wake cum-tux ic-ta mamook ni-ka tru-i-tan klat-a-wa (You did not know how to make my horse run). Cla-hoy-um, Crabb” (Good-by, Crabb).
I will further state that many years ago these Indians had exchanged horses with emigrants going into Oregon, across the plains, and that this celebrated Indian race-horse is a half-breed.
The old chief refused to sell him, saying, “I don’t need money. I have plenty. I am a chief. I have got the fastest horses in the world. I bet one thousand horses I can beat any man running horses.”
He refused an offer of five thousand dollars for this renowned courser. Several efforts have been made to induce him to take his horse to the State fair.
He at one time consented, saying, “I will take my horse just to show the white men what a race-horseis.” But he was unwell when the time came, and failed to go.
The question has been raised, whether this horse actually made the time reported.I believehe did.Competent white men have measured the course carefully, and several persons kept the time, none of whom marked over ten minutes, while others marked less than nine-fifty.
If any man is sceptical, he can find a chance to leave some money with How-lish-wam-po. The chief don’t need it, because he has thousands of dollarsburied, that once belonged to white men.
But he is human, and will take all that is offered, on the terms Joe Crabb made with him.
If there are real smart sports anywhere who desire a fine band of Indian horses, they have here a chance to obtain them, without stealing. Take your race-horses to Umatilla, and you won’t wait long. The probabilities are, that you may be disgusted with thecountry very soon.
For the benefit, it may be, of some of my readers, I would suggest that you have only to lead out the horse you propose running, and name the amount and distance. The Indians will find the horse to match the amount and distance, anywhere from fifty yards to one hundred miles. Don’t be tender-hearted if you should win a few hundred ponies. They won’t miss them. They onlyloanthem to you to gamble on.
Having a long-standing acquaintance with How-lish-wam-po, as a neighbor, and subsequently as his “high tyee chief,” I am authorized to say to Commodore Vanderbilt, Robert Bonner, “Uncle” Harper, Rev. W. H. H. Murray, or any other horse-fancier, clerical or unclerical, that a sufficient forfeit will be deposited by How-lish-wam-po, and his friends, in any bank in Oregon, to defray the expenses of anyparty who will measure speed with his horse, on his own turf, five and a quarter miles, turning a stake midway the race; said expense to be paid on the condition that the said parties win the race; in which event they can return with ponies enough to overload the Union Pacific Railroad, and make business for the “Erie” for a long time to come; with the proviso that How-lish-wam-po’s race-horse is alive and in condition to make the run, as we believe that he is at this present writing, 1874.
Parties seeking investments of the kind will receive prompt attention by addressing How-lish-wam-po, chief of Cayuse, Umatilla Reservation, Oregon,care Joe Crabb, Esq.
This latter gentleman has been hunting this kind of a contract, in behalf of How-lish-wam-po, for several months,unsuccessfully.
The Umatilla Indians rear horses by the thousands, never feeding or stabling, but always herding them, when the owner has enough to justify the expense of hiring an Indian herder. The horses run in bands of fifty to one hundred, and seldom mix to any considerable extent. If however, there should be several bands corralled together, the master-horse of each band soon separates them. When turned out on the plains they are very exacting, and many a battle is fought by these long-maned captains, in defence, or to prevent the capture, by the others, of some one of their own.
Cayuse horses are small, from twelve to fifteen hands high; are of every shade of color, and many of them white or spotted, bald-faced, white-legged and glass-eyed. They are spirited, though easilybroken to the saddle or harness. As saddle-horses they are far superior to the common American horse, and for speed and power of endurance they have no equals.
The Indians are accurate judges of the value of their animals and have strong attachments for them; seldom disposing of a favorite except in case of real necessity.
The small scurvy ponies are sold in large numbers, for prices ranging from five to twenty dollars each. A medium-sized saddle-horse sells for about forty dollars; a first-rate horse, one hundred dollars; and if a well-tried animal that can make one hundred miles one day, and repeat it the next, one hundred and fifty dollars.
The small, low-priced ponies are capable of carrying a common man all day long, without spur or whip. They are bought by white men for children’s use, and for ladies’ palfreys. They are docile, tractable, and fond of being petted. I know a small white pony, with long mane, and not more than forty inches in height, that was taught many tricks,—going through the hotel dining-room, kitchen, and parlor; sometimes following his little mistress upstairs; lying down and playing dead horse, kneeling for prayers, asking for sugar, by signs; in fact,—a fine pet. And yet the little fellow would canter off mile after mile with his mistress.
Major Barnhart, of Umatilla, owned a small Cayuse, about thirteen hands high, that would gallop to the Columbia river, thirty-one miles, in two hours, with a man on his back, and come back again at the same gait.
I once made an investment of five dollars in an unbroken pony, paid an Indian one dollar to ride her afew minutes, took her home and gave her to a little daughter, who named her “Cinderella.” After a few days’ petting, she often mounted and rode her fearlessly.
This one was a bright bay, with a small star in the forehead, with long mane extending below the neck, a foretop reaching down to its nose.
The Indians teach their horses, by kindness, to be very gentle. Often on the visits which they make to old homes, a little pic-i-ni-ne (child) is securely fastened to the Indian saddle, and the horse is turned loose with the band.
On all their journeys they drive bands of ponies, presenting a grotesque scene: horses of all ages, sizes, and colors; some of them loaded with camp equipage, including cooking arrangements, tin pans, kettles, baskets; also bedding of blankets, skins of animals; always the rush matting to cover the poles of the lodge, and going pell-mell, trotting or galloping. The women are chief managers, packing and driving the horses.
An Indian woman’s outfit for horseback riding is a saddle with two pommels, one in front, the other in the rear, and about eight inches high. The saddles are elaborately mounted with covers of dressed elk-skins, trimmed profusely with beads, while the lower portion is cut into a fringe, sometimes long enough to reach the ground.
These people seldom use a bridle, but, instead, a small rope, made of horsehair, in the making of which they display great taste. It is fastened with a double loop, around the horse’s lower jaw. They carry, as an ornament, a whip, differing from ladies’riding-whips in this, that the Indian woman’s whip is made of a stick twelve inches long, with a string attached to thesmallend, to secure it to the wrist. The other, or larger end, is bored to a depth of a few inches, and in the hole is inserted two thongs of dressed elk-skin, or leather, two inches wide and twenty in length.
The Indian woman is last to leave camp in the morning, and has, perhaps, other reasons, than her duties as drudge, to detain her; for she is a woman, and depends somewhat on her personal appearance especially if she is unmarried. If, however, she is married, she don’t care much more about her appearance than other married women, unless, indeed, she may have hopes of being a widow some day. Then she don’t do more than other folks we often see, who wish to become widows, said wish being expressed by feathers, and paint on the face and hair.
However, these Umatilla Indian maidens, who have not abandoned the savage habits of their people, are proud and dressy, and they carry with them, as do the young men, looking-glasses, and pomatums, the latter made of deer’s tallow or bear’s grease.
They also, I mean young people especially, carry red paints. Take, for illustration, a young Indian maiden of Chief Homli’s band, when on the annual visit to Grand Round valley.
Before leaving camp she besmears her hair with tallow and red paint, and her cheeks with the latter. Her frock, made loose, without corset or stays, is richly embroidered with gay-colored ribbons and beads, and rings of huge size, with bracelets on her wrists and arms.
Then suppose you see her mount a gayly caparisoned horse, from the right-hand side, climbing up with one foot over the high saddle, sitting astride, and, without requiring a young gent to hold the horse, place her beaded-moccasined feet in the stirrups, and, drawing up the parti-colored hair rope, dash off at what some folks would call breakneck speed, to join the caravan.
No young man had ever caught up her horse from the prairie, much less saddled it. But, on the other hand, she has probably brought up and saddled for her father, brother, or friend, a horse and prepared it for the master’s use.
The young men who are peers of this girl do not wait to see her mounted and then bear her company. Half an hour before, they had thrown themselves on prancing steeds, and with painted cheeks, hair flowing, embellished with feathers, and necklaces of bears’ claws, and brass rings, and most prominent of all, a looking-glass, suspended by a string around the neck.
The women manage the train and unpack the horses, make the lodge in which to camp, while their masters ride along carelessly, and stop to talk with travellers whom they meet; or it may be dismount at some way-side house and wait until it is time to start for the camp, where the lodge is built for the night.
There are, however, Indian men who are servants, and these assist the women.
When the site of the camp is reached, our young squaw dismounts, and, throwing off her fine clothes, goes to work in earnest, preparing the evening meal, while the gay young men, and the old ones, too, lounge and smoke unconcerned.
Remember, I am speaking now of Homli’s band of the Walla-Wallas. There are Christianized Indians on Umatilla Reservation, that have left behind them their primitive habits,—men of intelligence, whose credit is good for any reasonable amount in business transactions, and who occupy houses like civilized people. But the major portion are still wrapped in blankets, and thoroughly attached to the old customs and habits of their ancestors. They have a magnificent country, and are surrounded by enterprising white men, who would make this land of the Umatilla the most beautiful on the Pacific coast.
It may be many years before these people will consent to remove. In one sense it does seem to be a wrong, that so many prosperous homes as this should afford, must be unoccupied.
In another sense it is right, at least in that those who live upon it now are the lawful owners, and therefore have a right to raise horses on land that is worth five, ten, and twenty dollars per acre, if they choose. So long as they adhere to their old ways, no improvements may be expected. They will continue to raise horses and cattle, to drink whiskey and gamble, becoming more and more demoralized year by year; and in the mean time vicious white men will impose on them, often provoking quarrels, until some political change is made in the affairs of the Government, and the present humane policy toward them will be abandoned, and then their land will become the spoils of the white man. It were better for these people that they had a home somewhere out of the line of travel and commerce; or, at least, those who continuallyreject civilization. It is not to the disadvantage of those whose hearts are changed that they should remain. While the Government protects them they will enjoy the advantage of intercourse with business men. With those, however, who do not evince a willingness to become civilized, it is only a question of time, when they will waste away, and finally lose the grand patrimony they now possess.
I do not mean that it will ever be taken by force of arms, for the sentiments of justice and right are too deeply seated in the hearts and lives of the people of the frontier to permit any unjustifiable act of this kind to be committed; but designing men will, as they have ever done, involve good citizens in difficulties with Indians, who, so long as they cling to their superstitious religion, will retaliate, shouting “blood for blood;” and then the cry of extermination will be extorted from good men, who do not and cannot understand or recognize this unjust mode of redress.
Under the treaty with these Indians, they are to enjoy the privilege of hunting and grazing on the public domain in common with citizens; but this right is scarcely acknowledged by the settlers of places they visit, under the treaty.
SNAKE WAR—FIGHTING THE DEVIL WITH FIRE.
The southwestern portion of Oregon is a vast plain, whose general altitude is nearly four thousand feet above the level of the sea. A greater part of it is an uninhabited wilderness of sage-brush desert. A few hundred Indians have held it for generations, except the narrow belts of arable lands along the streams. There, Indians are commonly called “Snakes,” deriving the name from the principal river of the country.
The overland route to Oregon traverses this region for hundreds of miles. Many years ago the emigrants became engaged in a war with the few scattering bands of Indians along the route, and for many years hostilities continued. The origin of the first trouble is not known by white man’s authority. The Indian story is to the effect that white men began it to recover stock, which they, the Indians, had purchased from other tribes. This may be correct, and may not; but that a relentless war was carried on for years there is no doubt, and, that in the aggregate, the Indians got the better of it.
The great overland route to the mining regions of Idaho in early days passed through this hostile country. Many valuable lives were lost, and a great many hundreds of horses, mules, and cattle were stolen. The Snakes were daring enemies, and brave fellowson the warpath, successful in making reprisals, and, having nothing but their lives to lose, were bold and audacious scouts. They kept a frontier line of several hundred miles in length in constant alarm. Life was unsafe even within the lines of settlement.
Owyhee-Idaho country was one of the bloody battle-grounds, the Indians waylaying travellers along the roads, and from cover of sage-brush, or ledge of rocks, firing on them, and, in several instances, attacking stages loaded with passengers. At one time the stage was fired into on the road between Boise City and Silver City. The driver—Charley Winslow—and four passengers were killed and scalped. At another time, within ten miles of a mining town of two thousand inhabitants, Nathan Dixon, the driver of a stage-coach, was shot through the body and fell in the boot of the stage, a passenger by his side taking the lines and driving the stage-load of passengers out of danger. Poor “Nate!”—he paid the penalty of too brave a heart. He had been offered an escort at the station but one mile away, and declined it, saying, “He was not made to be killed by Indians.”
H. C. Scott, a ranchman living on Burnt river, Oregon, with his family, consisting of a wife and two children, went in a two-horse wagon to visit a neighbor two miles away. On their return they were fired on by Snake Indians. Mr. Scott received his death-wound; his wife was also shot through the body, but with heroic coolness took the lines of the team, and drove home, with her murdered husband struggling in death on the floor of the wagon, his blood sprinkling her children and herself. She lived but a few hoursand was buried with him. The children were unharmed, although several volleys were discharged after the flying team and its load.
On the road from “The Dalles” to Cañon city many skirmishes were had with these Indians. On one occasion they attacked the stage carrying passengers and the United States mail. The driver, Mr. Wheeler, was shot with a slug cut from an iron rod that had been used to secure the tail-board of a freight-wagon. The slug passed through his face, carrying with it several teeth from both sides of his upper jaw. Strange to relate, he drove his team out of further danger.
Not unfrequently freighters would lose the stock of entire trains, numbering scores of animals. Packers, too, lost their mule-trains. Lone horsemen were cut off, and murder, blood and theft reigned supreme in the several routes through the “Snake country.”
A party of eighty-four Chinamen were killed while en route to the mines of Idaho. Helpless, unarmed Chinamen, they are game for the savage red men, and the noble-hearted white men also. One man, commenting on this occurrence, remarked that, “they had no business to be Chinamen. The more the Indians killed, the better.” Instances of Indian butchery might be multiplied.
But, on the other hand, they in turn suffered in the same inhuman manner. Independent companies were organized to punish them, and punishment was inflicted with ruthless vengeance. Innocent, harmless Indians were murdered by these companies. Women were captured, or put to death. One circumstance will illustrate this feature of Indian warfare, as carried onby the white men. Jeff Standiford, of Idaho City, went in pursuit of savages with a company of white men and friendly Indians.
A camp was found and attacked. The men escaped, the women and children were captured. The old, homely women were shot, and killed; the children were awarded to the whites who distinguished themselves in their great battle against helpless women and children. The better-looking squaws were sold to the highest bidder for gold dust to pay the expenses of the expedition. But the fame of the company was established as “Indian fighters.” When we hear of Indians doing such deeds, we cry “extermination,” nor stop to learn the provocation.
This kind of Indian war continued several years, during the “great rebellion.” One feature or sanitary cure on the part of the Snake Indians I do not remember to have seen in print. While they were poorly armed, and were cut off from supplies of ammunition, and especially of lead, they cut up iron rods from captured wagons, without any forges, into bullets. On the persons of Indian warriors who were killed and captured,—I say captured, because many were killed and carried off by their friends, to prevent mutilation, and because of their fidelity to each other,—were found iron slugs, stones that were cut into the shape of balls, and wooden plugs one or two inches in length, and one inch in diameter. These latter were used by them to stop hemorrhage. When a warrior was struck by a bullet, he immediately inserted a wooden stopper in the wound. Rude surgical treatment this, and yet they claim it to be of great value.
This “Snake war” afforded abundant opportunity for frontiersmen to learn the manly art of killing Indians; and they did learn it, and learned it well. Volunteer companies were enlisted to stand between the white settlers and the Snake Indians, while the regular army was withdrawn to assist in putting down the rebellion; and theystoodthere, some of them, and otherslaythere, and theyarelying there to this day.
The famous Oregon poet, Joaquin Miller, earned his spurs as a war-man out on the plains fighting Snake Indians, and many others of less celebrity did likewise. But the handful of Snake Indians were harder to conquer than General Lee or Stonewall Jackson. General Lee touched his military hat with one hand, and passed over his sword with the other to General Grant, under the famous apple-tree, some months before.
E-he-gan, We-ah-we-wa and O-che-o had pulled down their war-feathers in presence of General Crook. When the drums of the Union army were beating the homeward march, General Crook was ordered to the frontier to whip the Snakes. Some of the regiments of the regular army were sent out to relieve the volunteers who garrisoned the military posts. Many a brave fellow who had returned from fighting rebels went out there to die by Snake bullets, and in some instances to be scalped.
They found a different enemy, not less brave, but more wily and cunning, who were careful of the waste of ammunition. These Snake Indians were not content to make war on white men, but continued to invade the territory of other Indians; particularly thatof Warm Springs Reservation, and occasionally of the Umatilla; also, to capture horses and prisoners.
Among the exploits in this line, the carrying off a little girl, daughter of a chief of the Warm Springs, was the most daring, and perhaps the most disastrous, in its results to the Snakes; daring, because committed in broad daylight, and inside the lines of white settlements.
The affair created great excitement when it was known among the friends of the child’s parents. No people are more intensely affected by such occurrences than Indians. This feeling is very much enhanced by the knowledge that captives are often sold as slaves into other tribes. Hence this capture was disastrous to the Snake Indians, because it aroused the fire of hate among the “Warm Springs,” and sent many of their braves to the warpath.
General Crook being theright man in the right place, and finding that his regulars could not successfully cope with the Snakes, called for volunteers from Umatilla and Warm Springs Reservation. A company of Cayuse Indians, under the leadership of the now famous Donald McKay, went from the former, and another company, under command of Dr. Wm. C. McKay, an older brother of Donald’s, from the latter agency. I know nothing of the theology of Gen. Crook, whether he is posted about the war-policy of his Satanic Majesty, but he struck it this time,—“fighting the devil with fire.”
These Indians were enlisted with the understanding that they were to have, as compensation for their services, the booty won from the “Snake Indians;” but were armed and rationed by the Government.
The father of the captured girl promised to award the brave who should recapture her, with her hand; or, in other words, she was to be the wife of the man who brought her in.
In those days, no well-established Indian law recognized the necessity for a marriage ceremony, neither prevented a brave from taking as many wives as he was able to buy, or otherwise obtain.
Hence this captive girl became a prize within reach of any brave who went on the warpath, and could succeed.
This tempting bounty, together with a love of plunder and the thirst for revenge, added to the ambition of the Indians to do something that would entitle them to the recognition of their manhood by white men, made recruiting easy to accomplish, and the two companies were quickly made up. The enlisted Indian scouts, when supported by the Government and furnished with arms and ammunition, clothed and mounted, were just the thing Crook had been wanting.
The Snakes had learned that soldiers in blue were poor marksmen, and that they could drive them by strategy. But as one of the chiefs related afterward, when they saw blue coats slip from their horses and take to the brush, giving back shot for shot, they were astonished. Then, too, the scouts under the McKays, Indians themselves, tracked them over plain and mountain, until they were forced to fortify, and, they became desperate.
Meanwhile this wily general, divested of his official toga, was out with his Indian scouts, one of whom said he looked like “a-cul-tus-til-le-cum” (a commonman), but he “mum-ook-sul-lux-ic-ta-hi-as-tyee-si-wash,” (“makes war like a big Indian chief.”)
General Crook, giving his Indian scouts permission to take scalps and prisoners, under savage war custom, very soon compelled the Snake chiefs to sue for peace.
This result was brought about by the “Warm Springs” and “Umatillas,” under the leadership of the McKay brothers, who advised a winter campaign. General Crook, with rare good sense, availing himself of their wisdom and experience, pursuing the Snakes, in mid-winter, over the high sage brush plains, and through the mountains.
The Snakes were under the leadership of three several chiefs. E-E-gan’s band, infesting the frontier on Burnt and Owyhee rivers, Eastern Oregon, numbering never more than three hundred warriors, had been reduced to less than two hundred, by the casualties of war; We-ah-we-wa’s band, of about the same number, swinging along between Burnt river and the Cañon City country.
Against these Donald McKay, with the Umatilla Indian scouts, was sent, supported by a company of the United States cavalry.
Donald was eminently successful in his scouting expedition, in recapturing horses, taking scalps, and, what has since been of more importance to him, in also retaking the captured daughter of the Warm Spring chief.
She was not found with her original captors, it being a common practice with Indians, and especially when at war, to pass captives out of the hands of the original captors, and, whenever practical, in exchange for other slaves.
Those who may meet this famous scout, Donald McKay, and his pretty little Indian wife, Zu-let-ta (Bright Eyes), would never suspect that she had served three years as a slave among the Snake Indians, and that the great stalwart fellow was her deliverer; yet such is the truth.
The third division of the Snake tribe was under the famous chief Pe-li-na, whose battle-grounds and warpaths were east of the Cascade mountains, and south of the Warm Spring Reservation.
During one of the engagements incident to this Snake war, he was killed in a fight with Dr. McKay’s Warm Spring scouts. He was probably the most daring and successful leader the Snake Indians have ever had.
On his death, a chief named O-che-o assumed command, and conducted the last battle fought by this band. Harassed and driven by the combined power of United States soldiers and their Indian allies, they made at last a stand, and fought bravely, but were overpowered, and finally compelled to surrender.
When they came in with hands dyed with the blood of innocent victims, and offered to shake hands with General Crook, he refused; and placing his own behind him, coolly said, “When you prove yourselves worthy—not till then.”
They were subjugated, and accepted the terms, “unconditional surrender”—without treaty or promise, except that of protection or subsistence on the part of the Government and an acknowledgment of its authority, and the promise of obedience on the part of the Indians.
At Warm Springs Agency an Indian, who had beenwith Crook, invited me to visit the department barn with him.
He led the way, climbing up gangways and ladders, until we reached the upper garret. He pointed to a dark-looking pile in one corner resembling a black bear-skin. On examination I found they were scalps. The scout remarked that he did not know how many were there now, because white men carried them off, and Capt. Smith, the agent, forbade them from touching them; that when they came home from “Crook’s war,” at the great scalp-dance they had sixty-two. He appeared to regret that the men who had cut them off the hated Snakes’ heads could not be permitted to ornament their shot-pouches with them. I selected one or two as reminders of the handiwork of the scouts, and also as specimens of the long black hair of the Snake Indians. I haven’t them now. For a while they hung in my office; but the doors were sometimes left unlocked, and they were missing. Pretty sure, they are now playing switch for a couple of handsome ladies residing,—well, no odds where.
If my reader will accompany me awhile we will visit the “Snake country,” and see it for ourselves. From the home office at Salem, Oregon, our route leads us down the beautiful Willamette valley, via Portland; thence once again up the Columbia by steamer and rail, through “the Cascades,” seeing new beauties each time in things we had not noticed on former trips. On the right a mountain stream leaps off a rock six hundred feet, and turns to mist, forming a perpetual cloud, that hides its main course, but pours its constant rain into a great pool below, and, overflowing, leaps again two hundred feet, and lightingon stony bed, made deeper and softer each century, it comes out to a smiling, sparkling silver sheet beneath the evergreen forests, and joins the river in its flow to the briny deep.
On the left we see Castle Rock, on which Jay Cooke built a fine air-castle when the North Pacific Railroad was builtupon paper, intending to match the ideal with the real in time, to sit on its summit, and, from the tower of his mansion, wave his welcome to the panting iron charger on his arrival from Duluth, en route to the great metropolis of the northwest.
Jay Cooke failed; the iron courser is stabled at Duluth; the metropolis is covered with heavy forests, and the hum of busy life is not heard very much at Puget Sound, and Castle Rock stands solitary and alone like some orphan boy.
So it will stand, for its mother mountains look on it with contempt, from its very insignificance. It is a pity Cooke can’t build the castle,—pity for this lonely rock, who bathes his feet in the boiling waters of the river.
“Rooster Rock” is still worse off, for he is surrounded by water too deep for him to wade, though he may keep his head above the flood.
Onward, upward we go, passing old rock towers and Indian burial-grounds, catching a glimpse of Father Hood, who seems in ill-humor now, and frowns, with dark clouds on his brow. Maybe he is angry with Mother Adams, on the north, who smiles beneath her silvery cap, while he scolds and thunders. The tables may yet turn with these mountain monarchs, and Hood may laugh while Mother Adams weeps. We will keep an eye on them for afew days, as our journey leads us toward the “Snake country.”
We are at “The Dalles.” Our commissary, Dr. W. C. McKay has made preparation for the journey; we are no longer to be hurried by steam so fast we cannot have the full benefit of the scenes we pass.
The doctor is a native of the mountains, and boasts that he is “no emigrant or carpet-bagger either;”—that his father’s blood was mixed with Puritan stock from Boston, and his mother knew how to lash him to the baby board and swing him to her back with strong cords, while she promenaded behind her husband, or gathered the wild huckleberries.
He is now, 1874, en route for the east with a troupe of Indians from Warm Springs and the Modoc Lava Beds.
Few who meet him will suspect he is the one of whom I write, unless I describe him more accurately. Educated in Wilbraham, Mass., at his father’s expense, he graduated with honor, and returned to his native land a strong, well-built, handsome gentleman. He married a woman of his own blood, fully his equal in culture.
The doctor has taken part in nearly all the important Indian affairs of Oregon and Washington Territory for a quarter of a century; sometimes as interpreter or secretary for treaty councils, and sometimes as United States Resident Physician, and again as leader of friendly Indians against hostile ones. His experiences have more the character of romance than any man in the northwest.
He meets us at the wharf and says, “Come, you are my guest,” and leads the way to the high, rockybluffs overlooking the city of “The Dalles.” Our entertainment was made complete through the hospitality of the lady-like, dark-eyed woman who presided at a table whereon we found an elegant supper.
We light our pipes, and stroll out to the tents of the teamsters, packers, and hands who are to accompany our expedition. An Indian boy is baking bread by a camp-fire with frying-pans. Near by the door of the cooking-tent we see our kitchen, a chest or box,—and by its side stands a fifty-pound sack of self-rising flour, with the end open, and, resting on the flour, a lump of dough.
Jimmy Kane, the Indian cook, twists off a chunk, and, by a circling motion peculiar to himself, and one would say entirely original, he soon gives it the shape of a thin, unbaked loaf. See the fellow measuring the frying-pan with his eyes, first scanning the loaf and then the pan, until, in his judgment, they will fit each other well; then, holding the limp loaf in his left hand, with the other he slips a bacon rind over the inside of the pan, to prevent the dough from sticking, and claps the latter in; and, patting it down until the surface is smooth, he pulls from his belt a sheath-knife, and makes crosses in the cake to prevent blistering. Next, the frying-pan goes over the fire a moment or two until the bottom is crusted. Meantime the cook has drawn out coals or embers, standing the pan at an angle, and propping it in position with a small stick, with one end in the ground and the other in the upper end of the pan-handle. Meanwhile the coffee-pot is boiling, and in some other frying-pan the meats are cooking. But see that messof dough, how it swells and puffs up, like an angry mule making ready for a bucking frolic. Jimmy takes the pan by the handle, and, with a peculiar motion, sends the now steaming loaf round and round the pan; then jerking a straw or reed from the ground, thrusts it into the heart of the loaf, and, quickly withdrawing it, examines the heated point. If no dough is there, the loaf is “done,” and then Jimmy throws it on his hand, and keeps it dancing until he lands it in the bread-sack, which is stored away among bed-blankets to keep it hot; while he proceeds to put another lump of dough through the same process. Sometimes the first loaf may be stood on end before the fire while the other loaves are taking their turn in the pan.
Perhaps a dozen cakes are standing like plates in a country woman’s cupboard, all on edge, while we look at the Indian cook setting the table on the ground. First spreading down a saddle-blanket, and then a table of thick sail-cloth, he draws the kitchen near, and pitches the tin plates and cups, knives, and spoons around, and, placing an old sack in the centre, sets thereon the frying-pan full of hot “fryins.” But Jimmy has everything on the table, and is waiting for the boys to come.
Listen, and you will hear the tramping feet of our band of horses and mules with which we are to make our journey. They come galloping into camp, seasoning the supper with dust.
On the following morning we are on the road toward the summit of the Blue Mountain, riding over high, rolling prairies, sometimes crossing deep, dark cañons, and out again on the open plain. On theevening of the second day we pitched our camp in Antelope valley.
While Jimmy is preparing supper, a man approaches our camp from the open plain. He carries on his shoulders a breech-loading shot-gun, and, hanging by his side, a game-bag, through which the furry legs of Jack rabbits and the feathers of prairie chickens may be seen; and also in his left hand a string of mountain trout. The man declares himself a hunter by his spoils; but there is something else that causes us to stare at him,—the soft felt hat slouched over his face, flannel blouse, denim overalls stuffed into the top of his boots, a small pointer dog that keeps close to his heels, altogether presenting a spectacle not common in appearance.
As he comes near our camp, we recognize, in the sunburnt face and flaxen hair, a man whose heroic deeds have placed his name high on the roll of honor as a chieftain. This plain-looking, rough-clad, sunburnt hunter isGeorge Crook, commander of the Department of the Columbia.
He is just the man that we wished to meet at this time. After a pleasant chat on every-day topics, the general threw himself down on a pile of blankets, and gave us his opinion of the Indian question, so far as concerned those we were going to meet. His experience made his views of great value, and we fully realized it within a few days.
We see, coming over the hill from Warm Springs Agency, a small cavalcade of Indians. They are to be of our party for the Snake expedition.
Foremost in the trail rode a young Indian, who had been with McKay’s scouts under Gen. Crook. Thegeneral quietly extended his hand to the new-comer, in token of recognition.
This man’s name was Tah-home (burnt rock). He had been successful, during the war, in capturing a little Snake Indian squaw of about twelve years of age. He had subsequently adopted her as his wife. Dr. McKay had arranged for Tah-home to bring his captive wife for the purpose of interpreter, it being presumed that she would, of course, be able to talk in her native tongue, having been only two years a captive.
It should be understood that nearly every tribe has a language distinct from its neighbors, and it was feared that some difficulty would arise in managing a council with a people who were so little known to other tribes, except by their daring acts of warfare; hence this arrangement with Tah-home and his squaw Ka-ko-na (lost child).
It required some strong promises to reassure Tah-home of the safety of this trip, in so far as it affected his property interest in the squaw; for at this time his thoughts were confined to this view of the case. When assured that, in the event the Snakes should claim his wife, and succeed in persuading her to remain with them, he should havetwo horses, he was satisfied to proceed.
One or two days after we encamped near Cañon City, and, in pity for the poorly clad squaw, we had her dressed in a full suit of new clothes. From that time henceforth Tah-home seemed to be very much attached to his wife. “Fine feathers make fine birds” among Indian people as elsewhere.
Pursuing our journey, we at last stand on thesummit of the Blue Mountains, one hundred and eighty miles south of “The Dalles.” Looking northward, spread out before us, a great high plain appears in full view, though hundred of miles away; high mountains, looking in the distance like a wooded fringe, and their high peaks, like taller trees that had outgrown their neighbors, were clothed in snow, making a marked contrast with their shining tops. To the south an elevated plateau of open country, bleak and dreary in its aspect. A few miles on we find a boiling spring of clear water, and near it a cool one.
Passing south of the summit, about fifty miles, we reach “Camp Harney,” a three-company military post established here to guard the Indians. There was a time when it was necessary. Indeed, it may be again.
THE COUNCIL WITH THE SNAKE INDIANS—O-CHE-O.
On our arrival we made our camp one mile below the post, on the bank of a small stream. No Indians were visible until the day appointed for the council we had ordered. Messengers had been sent out to the several Indian camps, notifying them of our presence.
They came at the appointed time in full force, men, women, and children. The council was held near our camp, in a large army hospital tent. The Snakes were represented by their great war chiefs, We-ah-we-we, E-he-gan, and O-che-o.
Before opening council, and while arranging the preliminaries, we announced the presence of Ka-ko-na,—the captive wife of Tah-home,—and the purpose for which she had been brought along.
This announcement created great excitement among the Snake Indians. They collected around the tired little squaw, and scanned her closely, for the purpose of identification. She was frightened, and shrunk from their questions, saying to Tah-home that she was “No Snake.” She had either really lost her native language, or was afraid to acknowledge that she could speak it.
Meanwhile, through the kindness of Gen. Crook, while we were encamped at Antelope valley, sending for Donald McKay, who was in Government employ,we were supplied with an interpreter. Donald is not only a scout, but he is a linguist in Indian tongues,—speaking seven of them fluently,—the “Shoshone Snake,” included. Ka-ko-na, satisfied that she would not be forced to go with her own people, listened to the Snake talk; suddenly, as though waking from a dream, she began talking it herself, and was soon recognized and identified as a sister of one of “O-che-o’s” braves.
Her father had been killed, her mother had died, and her relatives all gone, save this one brother. Stoical as they appear to be, there is, nevertheless, deep feelings of human affection pervading the hearts of these people; especially for brother and sister, and even to cousins; but, strangely enough, they carry their ideas of practicability beyond common humanity in their treatment of mothers, by casting them off as worn-out beasts of burden when too old for labor.
This is even worse than among civilized people, who pray for the death of mothers-in-law and step-mothers.
The fathers are treated with great kindness,—at least when they are possessed of worldly goods, and even when poor they are exempt from labor,—are buried with the honors due them, and their graves held sacred as long as the graves of other fathers generally.
After the usual preliminaries of smoking the peace-pipe, both parties proffering pipes, and after drawing a puff or two, then exchanging, passing the pipes around the circle, until all had proclaimed friendly intention by smoking, Col. Otis, commander of the District of theLakes, present, together with a number of officers from the post,—we opened the talk by saying, substantially, that we were there to represent another department of the Government; that we knew all about the history of the past, and had come to offer them a home on a Reservation, and to provide for their wants; and that we were prepared to assist them in removing to the new homes at Yai-nax, on Klamath Reservation.
The chiefs were suspicious and wary, not disposed to talk, but were good listeners. After two days, passed in “making heart,” they said they could not give an answer without “Old Win-ne-muc-ca,” the head chief of all the Shoshones, Snakes.
The council was adjourned, and this celebrated old fraud was sent for, a distance of one hundred miles.
Meanwhile we waited for his appearance, sometimes visiting the Indian camps several miles away.
On one occasion I went on horseback and alone with We-ah-we-wa. He seemed anxious to give warning to his people of our coming, and sent runners ahead on foot for that purpose. As we rode away from our camp I had some misgivings, when I remembered that the man beside me was one of the most bloodthirsty savages that had ever led a band of braves to a banquet of blood. He it was who had directed, and assisted too, in the many scenes of robbery and murder on the Cañon City road.
He was more than an ordinary man in mental power, had in former years, while a captive, lived on Warm Springs Reservation, had learned the Chinook jargon, and could speak “Boston” sufficiently well to make himself understood.
After leaving our camp, and while en route to his,he told me of his capture years before; of his confinement in a guard-house, and exhibited the scars that had been made by the fetters he had worn; then of his escape and subsequent adventures, and narrow escape from recapture and death.
He did not appear to shrink from mention of his own crimes and exploits, but sought to impress me constantly that he had only acted in defence of his own rights. There was in the face of this man a cunning, treacherous look that was anything but reassuring.
On crossing a little stream fringed with willows, we came suddenly on his camp. Not a house, tent, or lodge was to be seen, but scattered around among the sage bushes were several half-circular wind-brakes, made of sage-brush and willows. The women and children ran out at our approach. The chief called them back. They came shyly, and with wondering eyes gazed on the man who had come to move them to a new home. I learned from him thattheyhad never been to the post, and that few white men had ever called on him; hence the curiosity they had on being close enough to see how a white man looked. This chief was the owner of three sleek, fat, healthy-looking wives; they lived on roots, fish, and grasshoppers. The entire outfit for house-keeping was carried from one camping place to another on the backs of the squaws.
They were dressed in long loose frocks, made of deer-skins, trimmed with furs, and, woman-like, embellished with trinkets; in this instance of pieces of tin, cut by them, feathers and claws of wild animals. The sleeves were small, and in the seams a welt ofdressed deer-skin, two inches deep, and cut into fringes of one-fourth inch wide. They made their toilets at the little brook beneath the willows. These people maintained all their old customs. I noticed a woman’s work-basket, differing somewhat from that of those who were blessed with sewing-machines. Their needles were pointed bones, resembling an awl, and were used as such.
The threads were made of sinews of animals, cured and prepared for the purpose, very strong, but not fine enough for fancy work on silk or cambrics; and yet they make beautiful moccasins and bead-work, without other thread or needle.
The children were also clad in deer-skin clothes, as were the men; the latter being dressed with the hair and fur retained. All these people of whom I write are copper-colored, though varying in shades about as much as white people do, some of them being much darker than others; all have black eyes, and long black hair, and smooth features, except high-cheek bones. They differ in stature; those near the seacoast being smaller than those of the high lands; the latter averaging as large as white men. The women are much larger than white women.
Their habits are simple, and their morals beyond question, so far as the honor of their women is concerned. I learned from good authority that the Indian women who have never been contaminated by association with low white men are chaste. The law penalty of these people for violation of this virtue is death. One or two instances of the enforcement of this rigid rule have come within my own personal knowledge on reservations in Oregon.
Sixteen days after the opening of the councils, Win-ne-muc-ca arrived, and the council was again opened. The great chief spoke to his people in private, but declined to make a speech in our joint councils; the others speaking, however, for the people. O-che-o accepted our offer of a home, on the condition that we should return the captives that had been taken during the late war. This promise was made on our part. With this assurance, he and his band made ready for removal. The others did not. We used all our argumentative ability to obtain their consent, but unsuccessfully. They came to the council with war-paint on their bodies and arms concealed under deer-skin robes. Our party were armed, and all were on the keen look-out for trouble. Toward the close of the council-talks the medicine-man of the Snakes drew his knife, and, dropping his robe from his shoulders, displayed, what we well understood to be war-painting on his body and arms, and, thrusting his knife into the ground, said, “We have made up our minds to die before we will go to any place away from our country.”
This action and speech brought all parties to a standing posture very quickly. The situation was a very doubtful one for a few moments. The proximity of troops prevented a fight. Had we been a few miles from assistance, I doubt not blood would have been spilled.
We-ah-we-wa himself would have consented to go to a Reservation, but the medicine-man was not willing. Their chief requested that his reasons for not complying should be made known to the “big chief” at Washington, which request was granted and complied with.
The council ended, and we made preparation to remove O-che-o’s band to Yai-nax, Klamath Reservation.
Before leaving camp we had demonstrated the superiority of our doctor’s skill, by healing a sick Indian against the will of the Snake medicine-man.
The Snakes had demanded the return of their people who had been captured during the war. This we refused unless they would go on to the Reservation. These two circumstances had produced bad blood.
Before our departure a Snake woman, the wife of a half-breed, gave us warning that an attempt would be made to capture our party while on the way to Camp Warner. I made requisition for an escort of troops, which was honored, and we took up the line of march. We passed safely through this wild, unsettled region, and, on arrival at Warner, O-che-o gathered his people, and,withoutescort, we continued the journey to Yai-nax.
We enjoyed the rare spectacle of seeing the medicine-man practise on a patient who was taken suddenly ill and supposed to be poisoned. The treatment was novel. He made a sage-brush fire, and waited until it had burned down to embers. Meanwhile the patient was divested of clothing. The assistants of the doctor formed in a circle around the fire, and four men were selected to manage the victim of this savage practice. The prayers, songs and dances commenced simultaneously, increasing in earnestness. The patient was lying, with his face downward, on a blanket, with a slight covering over him. The medicine-man made a sign of readiness, when the sick man was seized by the four Indians, by thehands and feet, and, amid the noise of prayers and songs and dances, he was drawn forward and backward, face down, over the hot coals, until he was burnt the length of his body, so that great blisters were raised soon after.
This man did not wince or mutter or shrink from the fearful ordeal. His faith made him whole. A day or two after he was apparently well.
Belonging to O-che-o’s band was one named “Big Foot,” who would, with a cane four feet long, capture sage-brush hare, incredible as it may seem, when the fleetness of these animals is considered. He would actually run on to them and knock them down with the cane.
Our route from Warner to Yai-nax led us over a high, dry country, with occasional groves of mountain mahogany, or spruce, the whole great plateau being from four to five thousand feet above the sea level. Small lakes lay basking in summer’s sun or covered with winter’s ice. They are bountifully supplied with fish of the trout species.
On the day before our arrival we were met by a delegation of Klamath Indians, who came out to meet and give us welcome. It is a beautiful custom among Indians to send in runners to announce the approach of visitors, and then messengers are returned, or perhaps, as in this instance, the chief and his head men go in person to meet them.
They were impatient to “look into the eyes and see the tongue” of the new superintendent. Whether the Indians of our party had telegraphed our coming, or sent runners in advance, I do not now remember. The great Caucasian race justly honors the names ofFranklin,Morse, andField. These people of whom I write had been using fire as a medium of communication for untold generations. Spiritualism is also common among them.
We were treated with some exhibitions of this incomprehensible phenomenon while on this journey. The séance was not conducted with the aid of pine tables or the laying on of hands; the medium, or clairvoyant, working himself by wild motions of his arms and head into the proper condition. He announced that the Klamaths were at that minute encamped at a certain place, and designated the day on which they would meet us.
Subsequent investigation established the correctness of the prophecy. Whether the knowledge was obtained through fire-signals, or by the medium of spirit communication, this deponent sayeth not. There is a general understanding among them as to fire-signals, even when they have no knowledge of each other’s language.
The meeting with the Klamaths and Snakes was one of interest to all parties, from the fact that they had been enemies, and the chiefs had not met in person since peace was restored. Living in the country intervening was a small tribe of Wal-pah-pas, who were half Snake and half Klamath. They were mediators, though sometimes fighting on alternate sides, as interest or affront gave occasion.
The Klamath chief and his people had made camp, and were awaiting our arrival. The chief first addressed me, as the high chief, stating that he had heard of me, and was anxious to “see my eyes and heart, and welcome me to Klamath.” I replied bysaying, “I have brought with me a man of your own color. He comes to live on Klamath.” Then, extending my hand, the chief of the Klamaths advanced and exchanged greetings with me, and also with O-che-o, chief of the Snakes. This man I consider a remarkable character. Mild-mannered, smooth-voiced, unassuming, unused to ceremonies that were not savage, he exhibited traits of character worthy of emulation by more pretentious people.
In this informal council he responded to Allen David, the Klamath chief: “I met this white man. He won my heart with strong words. I came with him. I once thought I could kill all the white men. I have lost nearly all my young men fighting. I am tired of blood. I want to die in peace. I have given my heart all away. I will not go to war. I am poor. I have few horses. I do not know how to work. I can learn. We will be friends. I will live forever, where this new chief places me. I am done.”
After these greetings and the supper over, we gathered around huge fires of pine and spruce logs, and talked in a friendly manner. Singular spectacle, away out on the unsettled plains of Eastern Oregon, to see a meeting wherein were representatives of two races and seven different tribes, speaking as many different languages, sitting in peace and harmony, without fear of harm, telling stories, some of which were translated into the several tongues.
To illustrate how these talks were conducted: a white man speaks in his own language, a Warm Spring Indian repeats it to his own people, who, in turn, tell it to a Klamath, he to a Modoc, and then it goes through the Wal-pah-pa’s mouth to theSnake’s. Often three or four sentences, of different sense, are being translated at the same time. Some wild stories are told; but oftener the white man furnishes the subject, at the solicitation of some red men asking information.
The night wears away, the fires grow dim, and, one by one, the talkers drop out of the circle, and retire to sleep unguarded. The morning sun finds the camp active, and preparation being made for moving forward. The horses and mules are driven into camp, about as motley a band as the people who were squatting around the various breakfast tables on the ground. The scenes of such a camp are enlivening indeed. Tents falling, lodges taken down, horses neighing and losing company, all bustle and confusion, while the teams are being harnessed, and the mules and Indian ponies are being saddled and packed,—the spectacle presented is an exhilarating one. But if you would enjoy the full benefit of it, take a position on the side of the camp from which we take our departure, and, while you rest your elbows on your saddled horse, take items.
See the anxiety of each to be off first, and hear the driver of the mule teams talking in an undertone until the bells on the leaders strike a note that is in tune with the road, and then each mule settles to the collar and the wheels move. Anxious squaws are jabbering to their horses, children and dogs, lazy Indian men sitting unconcerned, astride the best horses. Stand still a little longer, and see the last man run to the fire for a coal to light his pipe, and then away to overtake his company.
The camp is now deserted, the fires are burned out,and the places where tents and lodges stood look smooth, and where the weary limbs have lain the fresh broken trees tell who were there. And now our horse, with his impatient feet, bids a hasty “good-by” to a spot that was our home for a night; we leave it behind us to be seen no more.
Our charger, now more impatient, still hurries to join the departed throng, while we turn up our coat-collar to keep the frost from our ears. Soon we come upon the lame and lazy, and perhaps an old squaw, with her basket of household treasures that has been with her through her hard life, the basket suspended on her back by a strap around her forehead, and a stick in her hand, and her body bent forward. She plods along until the sound of approaching hoofs startle her, and instinctively she looks around and stops for us to pass. Poor, miserable old link of Darwin’s mystic chain, we pity you; for you are, at least, half human, and your sons, with no filial love and no shame, are on prancing horses just ahead of you, wearing red blankets and redder paints, with feathers flying, and thoughtless of their mother; your lot is hard, but you don’t know it, because in your youth you played Indian lady, while your mother wore the shoes of servitude that you are now wearing.
As we ride on, passing little squads of old people on foot, and women with baby baskets, ponies groaning under two or three great lazy boys, teams with jingling bells, we find, nearer the front of the train, the lords of this wild kind of creation, laughing and sporting as they ride, apparently unconscious of the fact that slavery and bondage have fettered old age, and compelled it to drag weary limbs over stony roads.
We arrive at Yai-nax, the future home of a war-chief, who has cost the Government much of blood and treasure, though docile now. A lone hut marks the spot, near a large spring that runs off in a northerly direction to Sprague’s river. A beautiful valley spreads out for miles, covered with grass and wild flax; snowy mountains lie south, west, and north, the valley ascending the mountain east so gradually that we can scarcely see where the one ends and the other begins. The cavalcade halts near the spring, and soon the throng becomes busy making preparations for the night.
The next morning’s sun finds a busy camp; every able-bodied man is ordered to work; trees are falling, axes plying, and log cabins rise in rows, and the new home of the Snake Indians begins to appear to the eye a real, tangible thing.
Six days pass, and the smokes from thirteen Indian houses join in procession and move off eastward, borne by the breeze that sings and sighs, or howls in anger among the trees around Yai-nax. A council is called, and O-che-o speaks: “My heart is good. I will stay on the land you have given me. This is my home. When you come again you will find O-che-o here.”
Since leaving Camp Harney nothing has been said until this evening about captives. O-che-o now raises the question again. We meet him with the assurance that all the captives that can be found shall have the privilege of returning to their people. I was not altogether prepared for the scene that was opening. O-che-o remarked, through an interpreter, that he believed me, and that he expected thatI would secure the return to him of his captured son, who was somewhere in the north; but, to make his heart easy on the subject, he would try me with a case now before us; referring to Ka-ko-na.
It was a regular bombshell. We were on the eve of departure. Ka-ko-na and Tah-home had become very strongly attached to each other, and were not willing to be separated.
O-che-o had assented to the new law which I had introduced forbidding the sale of women; but he was nevertheless anxious to detain her, unless she waspaid for. This last feature he did not avow, but I well knew the meaning of his speech. He insisted that she should be brought before the council, and in the presence of the people make her choice, to go or stay. Tah-home was almost wild with fear of losing her, and reminded me of my promise at Antelope valley. Ka-ko-na was consulted, while I was endeavoring to evade the trying scene. I was satisfied that she preferred going with Tah-home; but I well knew the mysterious power of the medicine-man, and I feared that, if she was brought into his presence, she would be so much under the power of his will, through her own superstitious faith in him, that she would not have the courage to elect to go with Tah-home.
O-che-o was informed that she preferred to go with her husband. “All right; but let her come here to say so before all the people,” insisted O-che-o. I clearly saw that any further attempt at evasion would impair his confidence in my integrity.
This episode was of that kind which enlists the sympathies of all classes of men. Tah-home hadwon the good will of our entire party, during the trip from Antelope Valley, by his unceasing industry as a herder and camp-helper.
Ka-ko-na had also improved much in her manners, and had learned the art of laundress to some extent. No unseemly act had she committed to forfeit the respect due her as a woman; consequently now, when the two had become so thoroughly infatuated with each other that it was noticeable to even casual observers, a general feeling of pity and regret at the untoward circumstances was manifest throughout the camp.
The teamsters and other employés were willing to make up a purse to buy her of her people,—in fact, the project was put on foot to do so. I confess I was not insensible to the common feeling of regret, mixed with the fear for the result.
When the trying moment could no longer be delayed, Ka-ko-na and her master lover were brought into the circle. The moon was shining brightly, and, added to this, the light of the council fire made up a picture of romantic interest. Speeches were made on the occasion worthy of the subject.
An appeal was made to O-che-o’s better nature, in behalf of the anxious pair. He is really a noble fellow, and, to his credit be it told, a kind-hearted man, though untrained in civil ways.
He acknowledged that it was wrong to separate those who loved each other, but said “he must look in Ka-ko-na’s eyes while she made her choice.” He was not willing that Tah-home should even stand beside her while the matter was under discussion.
The latter asked the privilege of speaking, which,being granted, he poured out a speech that I little thought him capable of making. It was replete with the wild poetry of love, very impassioned, and full of pathos. Finally, Ka-ko-na was ordered to make a choice,—to go with Tah-home, or stay with her people.
The Snake medicine-man took a position in front of her, and, fixing his eyes on hers, stood gazing in her face. The whole council circle was stilled. A suspense that was very intense pervaded every mind. Silence reigned; every eye was watching the movement of the woman’s lips. The power of the medicine-man was more than she could stand, even when love for Tah-home was pleading.
She answered, “I stay,” and burst into tears. Tah-home turned as white as an Indian could. The white men present felt a cold chill fall on them. Ka-ko-na and Tah-home returned to their tent, she weeping bitterly. The council was broken up, and the excited camp was again quiet, save the sobbing of the heart-broken Ka-ko-na.
An hour or two before daybreak, I was awakened by Tah-home, who, in a low whisper, made an enterprising proposition, which was no less than to elope with his wife. I dare not assent, though strongly tempted to do so. When I refused, he then wished me to prevent pursuit. This I could not do. The poor fellow returned to his tent, and the sobbing changed to paroxysms of despair.
Our next point of destination being Klamath Agency, we had despatched part of our teams the evening previous. On one of these wagons Ka-ko-na’s goods had been placed by her friends, with the intention, no doubt, of making an excuse for her to follow. Whenthe morning came for our departure, O-che-o was invited to accompany our party to the agency, and repay the visit of the Klamaths. The fact that Ka-ko-na’s clothing had preceded her in wagons was urged as a reason why she should go also.
O-che-o consented. We placed the camp in charge of a trustworthy white man, and turned from this new settlement with feelings of pride, and with a prayer and hope for its success. Whether O-che-o and his people shall ever reach manhood’s estate depends entirely on the policy of the Government, and the men who are selected to educate them in the rudimentary principles of civilization.
Two years afterward I again visited the settlement. I found O-che-othere, contented. He was glad to see me, and repeated his declaration that he would “Go no more on the warpath.” I found twenty-eight log houses, with chimneys, doors, and windows, occupied by the Snake Indians; also, comfortable buildings for Government employés, and a farm of three hundred acres of land, under a substantial fence, together with corrals and barns.
This country is about forty-four hundred feet in altitude, and, consequently, the seasons are short. When not cut down by frost, wheat and barley yield abundantly, unless, indeed, another enemy should interfere,—the cricket. They are about one and one-half inches long, a bright black color, very destructive, marching in grand armies, eating the vegetation nearly clean as they go. These crickets made their appearance in the neighborhood of Yai-nax, and threatened destruction to the crops. The commissary in charge consulted O-che-o and Choe-tort. Theyordered their people to prepare for the war on this coming army. Circular bowl-shaped basins, six feet in diameter, were made in the ground, and paved with cobble-stones; large piles of dry wood, brush and grass were collected near the pits. All the available forces were armed with baskets, sacks, and other implements, and ordered on to the attack. The forces were put in position, and the alarm sounded, and this strange battle began. Let us stand by one of the basins, or pits, and witness the arrival of the victors, who come laden with the wounded and maimed enemies. Those in charge of the slaughter-pens, or basins, throw in wood, dry grass and sage brush, and when burnt down, the ashes are swept out with long willow brooms; then a fire is built around the upper rim of the basin, and as each captor comes with her load of thousands, they are thrown into the basin on the heated rocks. The children, especially the girls, are stationed around the circle to drive back the more enterprising crickets that succeed in hopping over, or through the fiery ring surrounding this slaughter-pen. Think, for a moment, of the helpless, writhing mass of animated nature in a hot furnace,—a great black heap of insects being stirred up with poles until they are roasted, while their inhuman torturers are apparently unconscious of the fact that these crickets are complete organisms, each with a separate existence, struggling for life.